


winter tucks her children in

by ceteiq



Series: "and a place to rest my head" [17]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Angst and Feels, Birthday, Blankets, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Parenthood, Poverty, Single Parents, Toddlers, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceteiq/pseuds/ceteiq
Summary: A ficlet based on my fic "and a place to rest my head," set a few years before the main fic.In which it's a particularly frigid winter, tomorrow is Rian's third birthday, and Jaskier would do anything to provide for his son.Or, Rian gets a blanket.
Series: "and a place to rest my head" [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719994
Comments: 15
Kudos: 79





	winter tucks her children in

**Author's Note:**

> hello and happy holidays! this isn't gonna be the happiest holiday ficlet ever, but it will have some heartwarming elements, i think? it's established in the main fic that jaskier gave rian a blanket for his 3rd birthday, but i never said how he obtained said blanket. so i wanted to explore that!
> 
> thanks to [kaifukugawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaifukugawa) for the advice and the beta read!
> 
> warnings: cold and hunger, fears about death, and implied forced underage prostitution

It's a stormy December evening, and Szymon's inn is busy, which means that Szymon is mercifully occupied behind the bar while Rian and Jaskier eat their dinner— two thick slices of ham and two large bowls of leftover porridge from this morning, a more substantial meal than they've had in a long time. Jaskier is sure that Szymon will hold it over his head later, the fact that he fed them more than usual, but for now he's just glad that Rian won't go to sleep hungry tonight.

It's the night before his third birthday, after all, so he deserves it. Well, he deserves a lot of things— a soft bed and warm clothes and real toys and more birthday presents than just a stupid song. But a full stomach is better than nothing, Jaskier supposes.

He watches as Rian finishes his ham, licks his fingers, and begins to stuff his mouth with congealed porridge. "It's yummy, Papa," he proclaims.

"I'm glad." Jaskier smiles, and Rian smiles too, briefly.

Then his smile fades. "But Papa?" he says.

"Yes?"

"I'm cold."

Jaskier sighs, pulling his son a bit closer to himself and giving his bony little shoulder a squeeze. "I know," he says. "It's been cold today, huh?"

"It's cold _every_ day," Rian says. "And every night."

"That's true," agrees Jaskier. "I think this is the coldest winter we've had in years. Certainly the coldest since before you were born."

"How come?" asks Rian, through a mouthful of porridge.

 _Because nothing ever gets better, only progressively worse_ , thinks Jaskier bitterly. But all he tells Rian is, "I'm not sure. Some winters are just colder than others."

"Oh." Rian eats his last spoonful of porridge and lifts the bowl to his mouth to lick it clean. When he's done, he looks up at Jaskier and frowns. "My legs are _really_ cold," he says then. "And my feets."

"I'm sorry, honey," Jaskier says helplessly. He wishes, so badly, that Rian had proper clothes, or at least something warmer than a ragged man's undershirt which leaves his shins and forearms bare. When they're alone in their room, Jaskier usually goes naked and lets Rian wear his own shirt and trousers. But downstairs, Szymon insists that Jaskier be fully clothed at all times. ("No sense in showing off the merchandise for free, eh?" is his reasoning. "People wanna see your skin, they gotta pay me for the privilege.")

"Are _you_ cold, Papa?" asks Rian.

"A little," says Jaskier, curling his numb toes against the floor.

"Are you cold on your face and arms and hands and legs and feets and bum?" asks Rian. "'Cause that's where _I'm_ cold."

"You wanna sit on my lap?" Jaskier offers, because there isn't much else he can do.

Rian nods and scoots up onto Jaskier's thighs.

"And as soon as I finish my dinner, we can go upstairs," Jaskier tells him. "And we can cuddle, and then you can take your medicine and go to sleep and you won't be cold anymore, okay?"

It's not really true, of course. Rian will be cold all night long, even if he isn't consciously aware of it. And tomorrow morning, when Jaskier takes him out from under the bed, his little sleeping body will be curled up tightly in an attempt to conserve warmth, as always.

But Rian, who doesn't know any of that, just nods once more, snuggling up against Jaskier's chest. "I love you, Papa," he says.

"I love you too," says Jaskier. And he scrapes up the final bit of his day-old porridge, shoves it in his mouth, and tries not to cry.

***

"Papa's clothes, Papa's clothes, Papa's clothes!" chants Rian as soon as they're back in their room. 

"Alright, hold on," says Jaskier, setting Rian down on the floor. 

He removes his chemise, bends down, and fits it over Rian's head. "Can you do the arms?" he asks, as he begins to unbutton his breeches.

Rian nods, pushing his skinny arms through the sleeves and gripping the excess material with his hands. "Warm," he says. "Now legs!"

So Jaskier helps him into the breeches, which pool around his ankles.

Rian gives a little hop, holding the breeches up by the waistband. "Bed?" he asks.

"Yep," says Jaskier. He scoops Rian into his arms and settles down in the bed, pulling up his bedsheet so it covers them both completely. It's dark underneath, and relatively cozy, and Jaskier always treasures this time of night— the half hour or so of peace before everything goes to shit. He smiles as Rian cuddles up to his torso with a tiny sigh of contentment.

"That better?" Jaskier asks him.

"Yeah. Better," mumbles Rian. "But I'm still cold." There's a pause. And then: "Maybe when I'm three I won't be cold," he says. "Do you think, Papa?"

"Um..." Jaskier strokes Rian's curls, wondering how to respond. He knows he should be honest, should prepare Rian for the fact that winter doesn't give a shit about little boys' birthdays. But all that comes out of his mouth is, "I don't know, honey. Maybe. That would be nice, huh?"

"Yeah. And I'm three _tomorrow_!" Rian points out. "That's soon."

"It's very soon, yes."

"Then I'll get a birthday song!" Rian says, his breath warm against Jaskier's shoulder.

"You sure will," says Jaskier. He hasn't actually _written_ Rian's birthday song yet, but he's sure he'll be able to come up with something later tonight while whatever client he ends up with is asleep. Or at least, he hopes he will. But even if not, he can always improvise something; Rian probably won't know the difference.

"And Papa?" says Rian.

"Yeah?"

"I'll make a wish too, right?"

"Mm-hmm, you can wish for whatever you want. But remember, it might not come true, alright honey?"

"I know." Rian squirms happily. "I still just like wishing."

"You're really excited, huh?" asks Jaskier, smiling in spite of himself.

"Yeah," says Rian. "Are you too?"

"I am," Jaskier tells him. Though it's not really that simple.

He _should_ be excited, he supposes. And grateful. And— proud? That despite everything, he's managed to keep his son alive for three whole years? Or maybe just guilty, because those three years have consisted almost entirely of suffering.

But truth be told, he doesn't feel much of anything right now beyond a deep, primal love for Rian, the only feeling strong enough to transcend the physical aches of exhaustion and hunger and pain.

"Papa?" says Rian then.

"Yeah, honey?"

"Remember when Szymon said if we lived outside then the cold would make us _die_?" It's too dark under the bedsheet to make out Rian's expression, but Jaskier can imagine his wide, inquisitive brown eyes.

"Yes," he says tersely, rubbing Rian's back. Szymon loves to scare Rian with details of how they'd be dead if it weren't for him. "But we don't live outside, do we?"

"No, but— but what about if the cold makes us die _inside_ though?" Rian asks.

"It won't," says Jaskier. "That's why we keep living here at the inn even though Szymon is so mean. Because as long as we've got walls and a roof, we're not gonna die of cold."

"Really?" Rian whispers.

"Really," Jaskier says, his heart clenching at the unmistakable fear in Rian's voice. "Honey, have— have you been worrying about this for a long time?" he asks. "That you're gonna die of cold?"

"Yeah," says Rian, nuzzling his little icicle nose against Jaskier's chest hair. "And you too."

Jaskier closes his eyes and wonders how fucking shitty of a father it makes him that his son has apparently been living in fear of freezing to death. A weight settles in his chest, the weight of failure. Of _all_ his failures. It surrounds his lungs, threatens to suffocate him. It almost wins.

But Jaskier keeps breathing. "Rian, that's not gonna happen," he says. "I won't let that happen, okay?"

"Oh." Rian wiggles a little, pressing closer to Jaskier. "Okay." His voice is small and soft and full of trust.

And Jaskier inhales shakily, fighting not to cry, because he is so, so fucking unworthy of that kind of trust. So fucking unworthy of _Rian_.

But he wants to be. He wants, more than anything, to be the kind of father that Rian deserves.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed. leave a comment and tell me what you think so far!!! <3
> 
> this will be two or three chapters in total, so more to come soon. :) much love to you all


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